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Not all haunted houses are haunted by an independent specter and not all specters that haunt a house are strictly occupants. Meaning, not all haunted houses are actually haunted; some are, in and of themselves, specters. Additionally, not all of these engineered specters are necessarily evil. Many are adversely to the contrary. Continue reading →

It was hard sleeping without Ann. It still felt unnatural even though I was now crashing on a fresh, smaller mattress. The fact that I knew where she was sleeping every night made it that much harder.

I’d been having some pretty gruesome dreams, of late. But on this night, it was over the top terrible. It was like one of those campy horror movies—only it wasn’t campy.

I awake like I’ve woken from a bad dream. The bad dream I awake from… I don’t remember. Upon waking I turn and find Ann’s softly curved naked body. Her hip is warm and she starts to moan as I caress its crescent. I nestle up against her and we lie in the spooning position. Her bare bottom is pressed against my groin and I’m getting hard. She releases herself from my right arm, which is pulling her tightly into my erection.

She turns around and looks me in the eyes, studying me. After some silence, she speaks in a strange repetitive tone, “Don’t worry, Mason…you’ll get your revenge. I promise, baby, you’ll get your revenge. I promise you, baby, you’ll…” But before she can finish she starts to profusely vomit chunks of blood.

Horrified, I wake. I sit up. This…this was a bad one.

I feel like I’m steeping in something…a hot dampness, not like sweat but more like…!

I fall out of bed and hit the flea infested carpet face-first. I can feel the little fuckers tugging on my legs.

The light through the blinds has faded into a paler shade of purple. I look at the clock: 6:15 a.m. It’ll be light soon. I realize that Keith is in the den. I can hear music faintly playing. He’s passed out with the stereo on.

“Mason…” Keith asks. He’s sipping a cup of coffee as I hurry about, getting ready for work, “Do you know anywhere I can get some weed?”

“What?” I ask, flabbergasted. I emerge from the tiny bathroom with a mouth full of toothpaste.

“Some weed?”

“Jesus Christ, Keith, you know I can’t do that. If I got nailed, not only would I lose my job but I would damage my boss big time!”

“Yeah, I suppose.” He sounds dejected.

“What do you need marijuana for anyway?”

“It helps with the pain.”

“What pain?”

“Why do you think I have those prescriptions, Mason? I live with chronic pain. It’s a medical condition.”

“So weed is supposed to help with that?”

“Yes. It helps more than anything; and, it doesn’t constipate me.”

“I knew you did drugs before prison…but how do you know it works on this pain?” I swish water in my mouth.

“Because I smoked in prison.”

“What?” I ask, spitting into the dirty, cluttered kitchen sink.

“That’s right. I smoked in prison. It helped with the pain. It helped a lot.”

“Goddamn, these places are worse than even I thought. How the fuck did you get weed in prison?”

“The guards.”

“The fucking guards?”

“Yeah, that’s right. They sold it to us. It was one of the only things they were useful for.”

“Is this how you used the money I sent you… for drugs?” I ask rhetorically, then comment, “I don’t know, Keith, I was there yesterday and they looked like they wanted us for lunch.”

When I finally pull up to the District Office it’s getting dark out. This sucks. Why? The D.O. is haunted. No bullshit, it’s creepy. Our office is housed in the center of Fort Bryan, in the historical district. The building we rent is as old as anything for fifty miles. It’s situated in a complex of buildings, constructed around the turn of the last century. The D.O. is in an old bank, in fact. The walls are several feet thick. They had to be, so as to withstand a dynamite attack. The place looks like a citadel. All the buildings on our block are connected in typical early twentieth-century fashion. What’s interesting is that they are connected by a labyrinth of internal passageways as well. I’ve only ventured their stairwells on one occasion—too creepy. Anyway, according to local lore, the building that the D.O. sits in was once held up, with several people getting killed. It’s said that it’s haunted by these victims. I fucking believe it. We share the place with an oil and gas company, but this late nobody’s here.

I nervously hunt for the right key under a friendless light. Even in this quasi-urban environment I hear the crickets and frogs crescendo and die in perfect rhythms. When I get inside there are no lights on. It is dead silent. I’m too stupid to have remembered a flashlight. I run my hand along the wall, searching for an otherwise familiar switch. The sudden illumination is initially as terrifying as the preceding darkness. The hallway to our D.O. is only sparsely lit, and guarded by French doors. There is no hall light. Before I’m engulfed, I’m smart enough to locate the correct key to our office. Blackness that could rival oblivion awaits me. Expecting to find a maggot ridden visage ready to tear my face off, I hit the office light immediately.

Not this time. I begin rummaging through my desk, looking for the mislaid wallet. It is nowhere. Fortunately, I have a pistol stashed in the one of the drawers of one of the filing cabinets. Not for the ghosts, mind you…but for me. If that fails, I can always slit my wrists with one of a multitude of knives that decorate the conference room across the hall. That’s right: knives as decorations (remember, this is politics).

I feel my boot hit something beneath the desk. Luckily, it’s my wallet and not a severed hand. I exhale my anxiety. The relaxed air has barely passed my thirsty lips when I detect a flashing light on the phone. Someone has called.

I’m officially on holiday at this point, but I scored and kept this gig because I work hard. How hard is it to pick up the receiver and dial the voicemail? Packing a cig on the desktop, I listen. The voice sounds Yankee:

“Yes, Mr. Dixon, this is Julius Reynolds. I’m calling about an issue concerning a pit bull farm not more than a few hundred yards behind my home. I live just outside of Bowers, in Wagoneer County. The farm is actually an old rodeo arena. The arena is open air so you can hear them barking. I have some pictures I’ve taken that I have mailed to you at the address I found on the Texas House website. I hope this is the right address. Will you please call me regarding this issue? We have several families with small children in the area. I have contacted the county and they say there is nothing they can do, as no laws are being broken. Again my name is…”

The cigarette I’m handling between my thumb and index finger beckons for a light. The liquor store is in need of my patronage. Why do I feel compelled to call this manright now?

The high definition screen illuminated perfectly the charred remnants of a little arm swinging like a metronome from a blackened bus window. Thee pressure from the extinguishing hose rocked the crowded, formerly yellow vehicle. Firemen raced about in the background through a thinning film of smoke. In the foreground, a network reporter spoke into a trembling microphone, repeating the same two lines: “Who could do such a thing?” And, “The sky reeks of burning tires!”

State Senator Reed Jackson stood very close to the suspended television, turning his good ear slightly upward. The volume was down very low so as not to disturb his wife Jill, who slept in the hospital bed behind him.

When the breaking news flash finished, he clicked the apparatus off. For some moments he sat staring at the blob that was now his beloved wife of fifty years. Reed thought it cruel that one so emaciated could possess such little shape. But this is cancer, he reconciled. For the aged state senator, all was part of God’s plan. There was reason for everything. We are not meant to understand. He felt his cell phone vibrating from the pocket of his black suit. He stepped quietly out of the room to take the call.

“Yes Governor, what is it?”

“Reed, my God, have you been watching the news! Have you heard what has just happened down in McAllen?”

“Yes sir, I was just watching; despicable.”

“What kind of a sick son-of-a-bitch would blow up a school bus filled with elementary school children?”

“If I had to guess, I would say it was the cartels, sir. The Gulf Cartel to be exact.”

“But why?

“The federal amnesty law paved the way for legitimate trafficking. The cartels now have legal competition. This was most likely done to deter that competition, and will no doubt be persuasive. I doubt any church groups or do-gooder organizations will venture into this area; not after this.”

“What can we do?”

“Ever since the federal amnesty bill became law some months back, I’ve been thinking about just that. I suggest you call for a Select Joint Committee on Immigration Reform to address the immigration issue. We will need it to be a mixture of republican and democrat; it must be bi-partisan.”

“Do you think the Dems will play along?”

“The general election is in less than two weeks. Everyone who voiced his or her support for amnesty will be running for the exit, sir. This is Texas’ 911. To answer your question, yes, I believe the Dems will play along.”

“Speaking of the general, it looks like Harry is going to get clobbered. Did you have any idea he was involved in those things?”

“Harry has the personality of an addict. Years ago I cured him of one addiction. I suppose his great flaw is that he is in need of a vice. But no, of course I had no idea. This is unacceptable. I am disgusted.”

“Do you have anyone in mind for the committee?” the governor asked in an attempt to reroute the discussion to less personal and more productive aims.

“This terrorist attack occurred in McAllen, along the border. That’s Representative Ron Martinez’s district. I will call him shortly.”

“This can’t wait, Reed!” the governor implored.

“I understand, but I am at the hospital right now. It will have to wait, sir.”

“I’m sorry, Reed, how thoughtless of me. How is Jill?”

“She’s dying, Governor.”

“I’m terribly sorry Reed…terribly sorry.”

“It is alright sir; soon she shall be with the Lord. I will call you tomorrow when I have something.”

“God Bless you, Reed.”

“God Bless Texas, sir.”

When Reed reentered Jill’s private room, he found that all the instruments which detailed her vital sign’s had collapsed. The EKG was flat. He kissed Jill on the forehead and then pressed the remote that alerted the nurse. A single stoic tear traveled the furrows of his face. Taking a seat near the bed, he took her hand, which was still warm. Yes, he thought, now she has gone home. He wondered when he would join her. He prayed it would not be too long. Reed was now alone on this earth: His son having died years ago in a car accident and his lesbian daughter estranged and beyond contacting. In joining Jill, he prayed it would not be long.

When the nurse arrived, he informed her of his wife’s passing. Personnel came and went. Reed, having returned to the television, watched more of the unfolding devastation. He had loved God with all his heart his whole life. The Lord had repaid him with professional success, but balanced that success with personal tragedy. It had been his cross to bear. He watched as the firemen started the careful process of removing tiny bodies from the explosion; knowing he had one more cross to bear before he joined his wife in eternity.

I can’t help but dwell on the meeting I’ve just left as I head east into the big town. No matter what its good intentions, government is a bully. The collateral damage nearly always disproportionate to its benefits. But something happens to people after they get elected to office. In reality, there are no good guys. Maybe at some point in the past there were, but not anymore.

The closest thing to a good guy is me. And what is it that I do? I’m Mason Dixon—really. I’m the District Manager for House District 100. Nobody knows what I do, and that’s the beauty of it. Nobody sees me coming. And what do I do? If you’ve got a problem with a government agency and can’t get anywhere…if you’re tied up in red tape…maybe I can help. It doesn’t matter if you are having trouble renewing your driver’s license or a family wants to see a loved one, one last time before they die in prison. I will go to bat for you. It isn’t political—far from it. Some English author once said, “Heroism begins where politics ends.” that’s me. Nobody knows what I do. I can help anyone, anyone but me that is.

Back at the apartment, I shed my slacks for shorts, my golf shirt for a wife beater, and my cowboy boots for flip-flops. The A/C is inadequate everywhere I go at this point. This apartment being an all bills paid complex, it means they skimp. The place is pretty barren, as most of my furniture is still at the cabin in the country.

I open the refrigerator and savor the cool, crisp air. I rub a chilled bottle of beer over my sweaty forehead. But I don’t dare open it.

The cat makes her appearance. She hops up on the counter and looks at me in her enigmatic peculiar fashion. It’s like she’s studying me. Clarissa is her name. She was my wife’s cat. We never really took to each other, but lately the two of us seem to be growing on one another. I open a can of pungent Fancy Feast and she gobbles it up. I now think we might have a special relationship. Growing up, I never had cats, only dogs. After my wife was gone, my boss said I should get rid of her. I just couldn’t. So when I split the country, I brought her with me to the apartment. I think we’re helping each other adjust.

I’m ready to chill. Even though I don’t have anyone to spend it with, I’m on the cusp of a three-day weekend. I pour some Jack over a few ice cubes. I light up a smoke after I plop down on one of the only pieces of furniture I brought from the country. Clarissa is perched on the leather arm, her nostrils flaring and contracting in disapproval.

I’m flipping channels when I realize I left my wallet up at the District Office, which is some thirty minutes away. What if I need more Jack? I wonder. I start to worry when I realize I’m only four fingers full. I’ve got to go retrieve it.

The traffic outbound is awful. I sit behind a propane truck, my mind wandering. I start thinking about Brenna. An interesting observation I’ve made: since Ann departed, women seem to be everywhere—checking me out. I’m anything but the lone, hungry wolf. It’s an odd paradox, because since Ann left, public officials, other than my boss, want nothing to do with me.

By what I’m able to gather, this meeting has something to do with sex trafficking in the county. Seeping in from the city, just due east, this is a growing enterprise that has finally caught the attention of public servants.

As pretentious as this collection might be, as they banter around the table, all talk is loaded with good intentions. The only problem is that these good intentions mean suspending civil liberties.Th e worst is the local congresswoman. She even suggests spying on one’s neighbors. Yes, the helicopter mentality spins in mysterious ways. If a child scrapes their knee on the sidewalk, then the abrasiveness of concrete must be regulated, or at least investigated. If those diabolical shoelaces were complicit in the fall, then…something must be done about that as well! Followed to its logical conclusion, said child will never be allowed to leave the playpen, that too bereft of playthings—too dangerous.

When this meeting mercifully ends, I’m left with the impression that given another fifteen minutes someone was going to suggest a law banning men—any man—from coming into contact with children under thirty. To his credit, my boss has said very little.

Brenna has vanished.

The Rep. and I make conversation as we filter out into the blazing heat.

“So how do you like living in an apartment?” he asks, shielding himself from the offensive elements with this hand.

“It’s taking time…getting adjusted. At first it was so claustrophobic, having lived in the country for so long.”

“Are you gonna sell the place?” he asks, tugging on his clothes as if he’s on fire. The boss is huge, not fat but tall and big boned. If he weren’t so uncoordinated he might have played basketball.

“I don’t know. The taxes will go up without the homestead. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it.”

“Well, Wagoneer County will miss you if you pull up stakes for good.”

This is so obviously a false claim that it is diffcult for me to pretend otherwise. “Yeah, maybe.” I shrug, squinting my eyes. I’ve left my sunglasses in the car.

“How long has it been?” This question is even more awkward, exacerbated by his twitching under the sun.

“You mean since Ann…?”

“Yes.”

“Coming up on a year.”

Before parting, we are interrupted by the congresswoman from the meeting. She still fails to acknowledge me, although I have met her probably seven-hundred times. It doesn’t matter, I’m ready to go. Though this is a Thursday, tomorrow is the Fourth. Besides, she’s had so much plastic surgery at this point she looks like a freak and I don’t feel like faking it.

I should have known this almost universal of maxims. But I refused to acknowledge it. I steered and stuttered my way through traffic, distracted along the way by a series of dead dogs that filled consecutive ditches. I love dogs.

After winding through an arbor of live oaks that shrouded the wealthy streets, I arrived at the scheduled meeting at the Fort Bryan County Courthouse…

Introductions are in order, and when it’s my turn I stand and give my name and occupation, “Mason Dixon!” I declare, knowing that those in the room who don’t know me will think it almost strange, maybe somewhat comical. “I’m the District Manager for House District 100!” My boss, the state rep who I work for, signals discreetly with his hand for me to sit down…

I can’t help but dwell on the meeting I’ve just left as I head east into the big town. No matter what its good intentions, government is a bully. The collateral damage nearly always disproportionate to its benefits. But something happens to people after they get elected to office. In reality, there are no good guys. Maybe at some point in the past there were, but not anymore.

The closest thing to a good guy is me. And what is it that I do?

I’m Mason Dixon—really. I’m the District Manager for House District 100. Nobody knows what I do, and that’s the beauty of it. Nobody sees me coming. And what do I do? If you’ve got a problem with a government agency and can’t get anywhere …if you’re tied up in red tape…maybe I can help. It doesn’t matter if you are having trouble renewing your driver’s license or a family wants to see a loved one, one last time before they die in prison. I will go to bat for you. It isn’t political—far from it. Some English author once said, “Heroism begins where politics ends.” That’s me. Nobody knows what I do. I can help anyone, anyone but me that is…

When I finally pull up to the District Office it’s getting dark out. This sucks. Why? The D.O. is haunted. No bullshit, it’s creepy. Our office is housed in the center of Fort Bryan, in the historical district. The building we rent is as old as anything for fifty miles. It’s situated in a complex of buildings, constructed around the turn of the last century. The D.O. is in an old bank, in fact. The walls are several feet thick. They had to be, so as to withstand a dynamite attack. The place looks like a citadel. All the buildings on our block are connected in typical early twentieth-century fashion. What’s interesting is that they are connected by a labyrinth of internal passageways as well. I’ve only ventured their stairwells on one occasion—too creepy. Anyway, according to local lore, the building that the D.O. sits in was once held up, with several people getting killed. It’s said that it’s haunted by these victims. I fucking believe it. We share the place with an oil and gas company, but this late nobody’s here.

I’m a sentimentalist by nature. In my first novel The Representative, the protagonist John David Dothan is afflicted with an incurable romanticism. I have to confess that this particular attribute was extracted from me personally. As such I possess a proclivity for and towards a softening of things. Refinement by its very nature is of the feminine. But there is an element of escapism at its core. Too much of this is an unhealthy thing.

Enter my second novel, The District Manager. Where The Representative was narrated in third person, past tense, DM is in first person, present tense (with instances of first person past tense). Mason Dixon, the story’s narrator and protagonist, is my reaction to Dothan. Mason is a stoical creature. His tale is told with Spartan desperation. However insecure and sensitive he might be, Mason is cloaked in armor: his perspective, the masculine.

This makes Mason Dixon a consummate outsider. He is alone and his aloneness can only be expressed in gritty realism. There is little softening of observation. He is a simple animal, scratching for survival in a world of ugly beasts hiding behind confected status.

I believe we are on the cusp of a new age of censorship. It will not be long now before people begin to go to jail for what they say, write or broadcast—in fact it’s already started. Though this has its roots in the political, it will transcend that in very little time, encompassing every aspect of our lives. The reason for this censorship is a fundamental inability of westerners to accept or deal with reality. This is at the core of what we call Political Correctness. Anyone with any sort of awareness of the world around them knows this predicament ends badly.

The western world is rife with faux security. Its movies and entertainment are increasingly fantastical. With each new terror episode we collectively recoil into our thin bubble of fantasy. I have nothing against quality works of unreality (I’ve authored a novel of stories in the gothic genre). But by objectifying our experiences and distilling them through the creative filter we not only better understand the circumstances that shape our lives, but also add a human factor to our fast 24-hour news cycle; a news cycle that is increasingly dehumanizing due to its rapidity.

Our entertainment is in need of an adrenaline shot to the heart. It’s time to wake up.

Writing The District Manger was a taxing experience. It literally drained me emotionally, physically, and dare I say, spiritually. Mason Dixon, the story’s protagonist, is a haunted if not a disturbed man. The tale is told in the first person. Inhabiting Mason for the time it took to complete the first draft of the novel left me in an unhealthy state: one that literally found me in the hospital by year’s end.

Mason is an emotionally stoical character and an introvert, two characteristics that I do not personally possess. Shifting into that mode on a repeated basis disrupted my equilibrium dramatically. The one attribute of his that was borne from the author is the protagonist’s outrage at injustice, which often reaches the point of hyperbole. Like I said, I was left in an unhealthy state.

The District Manager is a fast paced, realistic gothic novel. It begins by suggesting, and then later climaxes with an underground dog fight; the scene in question very disturbing for its realism. The version of this scene that actually made it into the final novel was contrived after much editing. I was advised that the original draft was simply too over the top. However, my editing team had to concede, despite their consternation, that the original was very well written.

When I was still conceiving The District Manager I had the odd circumstance of coming into contact with an individual who was intimate with persons who had actually been convicted and incarcerated for illegal dog fighting. Over numerous drinks he described to me in considerable detail the process by which this violent, illegal enterprise is conducted. I knew after our discussion that even the best of my imagination could not sculpt a more compelling/disturbing picture than what he related.

I went with it. Hardcore realism.

When the book was finished and the editing process was complete, I found the novel to be both an enlightening and dislocating experience. The District Manager is a train wreck; a train wreck you cannot take your eyes away from…I hope.